


Orchids and Vanilla Essence

by neglectedtuesday



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Background Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Baking, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mentioned Agnes Montague, Mentioned Jude Perry, Mentioned Oliver Banks, Vignettes, based on art, flowershop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: Jon takes a moment to take in his surroundings. They’re standing under the awning of a flower shop, the pavement brimming with layered shelves and buckets of bright, delicate flowers. Hanging baskets sway overhead, their leaves dangling like teardrops. In one window sit a variety of orchids, in the other aloe Vera and cacti.The man is wearing a name tag that reads Martin in block capitals, pinned to the top of his pink apron. When he steps away to turn off the hose, Jon becomes aware how much taller Martin is.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 25
Kudos: 229





	Orchids and Vanilla Essence

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a series of vignettes than an actual plot but it's soft and cute so I hope y'all enjoy.

“Are you getting Georgie a house warming present?” Daisy asks.

Jon holds his phone away from his ear to check the caller ID. 

“Is that something we’re doing?”

“It’s a housewarming party,” Daisy points out, “apparently, that’s the etiquette. Basira thinks it’s a good idea anyway.”

“Right,” Jon says, pausing at the zebra crossing. He loosens his tie with his free hand, the rare April heat making him feel like a melting rice pudding. “Did Basira have any other words of wisdom?”

“Don’t buy candles because they’re boring.”

“Hmm.”

“And you have to buy your own gift, you can’t jump onto ours.”

“So we’re not buying individual gifts?” 

“Basira is my girlfriend, so our gift is from us as a couple.” 

The light turns green. 

“Well, what should I get her?” Jon asks, weaving his way around the Brick Lane tourists. 

“I don’t know, you dated her.” There’s a sound in the background of meat hitting hot oil. “It has to work for Melanie as well.” 

“Melanie will hate anything I get her on principle,” Jon grumbles.

“Probably. Can you stop by Tesco on the way home, we’re out of milk.”

Daisy hangs up before Jon can reply. Jon slides his phone into his suit jacket and unbuttons the top button of his shirt, grumbling under his breath about Daisy and the heat.

Jon has never been a particularly good gift-giver. He doesn’t celebrate Christmas, and for birthdays he usually errs on the side of practically and buys good woolen socks. He doesn’t think socks are going to cut it this time and besides, he bought Georgie socks for her last birthday. Supposedly he could bake something, but he’s not had much success with gluten free flour recently and would prefer not to get into an argument with Melanie about it.

He’s so wrapped up in his own head that he fails to notice the large east Asian man brandishing a garden hose until he’s walked straight into him. Jon stumbles, his glasses clattering to the ground. 

“Are you alright?” a voice like an anxious kitten asks. 

A hand steadies Jon’s elbow. Jon tries not to jump away from the touch, the world now soft and blurry. 

“Hold on,” the voice continues. The hand remains on the elbow but the weight shifts, as if someone is bending down. Jon shuffles his feet nervously, wincing when he notes that the bottom of his trousers are damp. 

“Here we are.” 

The voice gently places Jon’s glasses back on his face. Heat rises up Jon’s face and he’s suddenly grateful his brown skin won’t indicate his blush. A smiling, chubby face comes into view. 

“Thank you,” Jon mumbles. “Sorry for um… walking into you.” 

“It’s ok,” the man says, “sorry for getting you wet.” 

Jon snorts.

The man blushes profusely and stammers, “I mean, for spraying water on your trousers.”

“It’s alright,” Jon says, “it was my fault really, I should’ve looked where I was going.”

Jon takes a moment to take in his surroundings. They’re standing under the awning of a flower shop, the pavement brimming with layered shelves and buckets of bright, delicate flowers. Hanging baskets sway overhead, their leaves dangling like teardrops. In one window sit a variety of orchids, in the other aloe Vera and cacti. 

The man is wearing a name tag that reads Martin in block capitals, pinned to the top of his pink apron. When he steps away to turn off the hose, Jon becomes aware how much taller Martin is. 

“Do you sell house warming gifts?” Jon blurts. 

“Sorry?” 

“Do you sell things that would work as housewarming gifts?” 

Martin taps his index finger against his lip, brows furrowing as he thinks. 

“Plants make good gifts,” Martin says, “is there anything in particular you had in mind?”

Jon shrugs. “I’ll take any suggestions you have.” 

“Come on then, let’s have a look.” 

Jon trails behind Martin, fingers brushing leaves and petals as they pass. Inside the shop it smells strongly of earth. Soft guitar music plays from overhead speakers, occasionally interrupted by jangling wind chimes. 

“Cacti are always good,” Martin says, leading Jon over to a display. “Not as hard to kill as people think but usually solid. Succulents are popular at the moment, but flowering cacti are also pretty.” 

Jon stares at the crimson flowers protected by sharp, thin needles and can’t think of a better symbol for Georgie and Melanie’s relationship. 

“That will work, thank you.” 

Martin smiles, his dark brown eyes glittering with excitement as he carefully picks up the terracotta pot. Martin smiles and Jon forgets that his trousers are damp and his glasses slightly askew. Martin smiles and the whole world feels slightly brighter. 

Jon mentally reprimands himself for drifting off into poetry of all things as he follows Martin to the counter. Martin places the pot into a gold gift bag with the utmost care, like a chef placing the final flourishes on an exquisite dish. 

“That’ll be seven pounds please.”

“No discount for my ruined trousers,” Jon jokes. The tops of Martin’s ears go red.

“Right, of course!”

“I’m joking,” Jon says, anxiety flooding his body. “I was joking, you don’t have to. It was my own stupidity after all.” 

Jon presses his card against the machine before Martin can change the price. 

“I hope your friends like the cactus,” Martin says. 

“I hope so too, thank you.”

Jon takes his purchase and leaves before he can say anything that will embarrass him further. He forgets to buy milk.

\-----

Four hours before they’re supposed to leave, Jon panics and makes coconut milk and cardamom peda to take with him. He carries them in his lap on the tube, the cactus bag balanced on top, only mildly terrified that he’s going to drop everything. 

The peda is met with pleased delight on Georgie’s part, a nonplussed attitude from Melanie. The house is crowded with people, most of them Melanie’s youtube friends. Jon pushes the cactus into Melanie’s hands before slipping off to the kitchen, ignoring her confusion in favour of getting wine as soon as possible. 

Despite his panic baking, he managed to get a somewhat decent outfit together. Jon is wearing his nicest grey cable knit sweater vest with a crisp white shirt, with black and grey check cigarette trousers. He fiddles with a loose thread on his trousers, taking a sip of wine as he meanders through the living room, trying to find a quiet corner to hide in. He doesn’t want to go poking around where he doesn’t belong but he knows the Admiral is probably sleeping in a quiet bedroom and that seems ideal.

Basira and Daisy have managed to grab an arm of the sofa to lean against. Daisy still has her leather jacket on and only an eagle eye would be able to tell that she’s matched her button up shirt to the sky blue of Basira’s hijab. Daisy makes a strange hand gesture as she chats to Melanie. It looks violent so Jon can only assume they’re talking about knives. 

The doorbell rings, nearly lost under the chatter and music. Jon flattens himself against a bookcase to allow a few people to pass so he isn’t aware of who has arrived until they’re halfway into the room. 

It’s Martin, wearing a soft maroon sweater and holding a plant pot containing a gossamer cerise orchid. Under the haloed light from an overhead lamp, Martin has taken on a saint-like quality; the patron saint of potted plants perhaps. He also looks a little lost, as if he’s not sure how he ended up here, nor is he not entirely sure he’ll be able to find somewhere to put the orchid down. It’s rare that Jon gets caught up in aesthetics but there’s something very alluring about Martin. Jon can’t quite pinpoint it. Maybe it’s the crinkles at the edges of Martin’s eyes when he smiles, or that kindness seems to radiate from the core of his being. 

Jon takes a large gulp of wine. He regrets it immediately when Martin catches his eye. Jon has never had someone smile at him like that. Martin makes his way over, deftly shimmying around the coffee table. Jon unwinds his spine so that he’s not shrinking into the floor. 

“It’s a good thing you didn’t buy an orchid,” Martin says, “otherwise we would have both been embarrassed.”

“Yes,” Jon replies, “worse than wearing the same sweater one might say.” 

Martin chuckles, while Jon ducks his head bashfully. 

“I’m Martin.”

“I know. I mean, I remember your name tag.”

There’s a soft pause. 

“Well, you didn’t come with one,” Martin says, his tone very leading. 

“Right! Sorry, I’m Jon.”

“Jon,” Martin repeats. Jon has never heard his name said like it has weight. He places the empty wine glass on the bookcase shelf, shoving his empty hands into his pockets to appear relaxed.

“So how do you know Georgie? Or Melanie?” Martin asks.

“I used to date Georgie,” Jon replies, “when we were at uni.”

“Oh.” 

Jon doesn’t like how that  _ oh  _ sounds. 

“We stayed friends,” Jon continues, not sure what his mouth is doing, “which was nice, but I’m very not into her. Anymore. Or just girls. I… um. I’m embarrassing myself.”

Martin touches Jon’s shoulder kindly. “A little bit, but I get your drift.” 

“I also like boys,” Jon mumbles. 

Martin laughs softly, dipping his head close to Jon’s to murmur, “I also like boys.”

They sit in the comfortable silence that follows that statement, both looking at each other with shy intrigue. 

“Would you like a drink?” Jon asks.

“A lemonade would be nice, I also need to put this orchid down somewhere.”

The kitchen is less busy than the living room, more of a passageway for those going into the back garden to smoke. Martin places the orchid on the window sill behind the sink. It sways softly in the breeze from the open window. 

Jon finds clean glasses in a cupboard. The lemonade is being used as a mixer, but there’s enough for two before it’s finished. Martin clinks his glass against Jon’s. 

It feels like the start of something.

\-----

Jon has never been particularly good at dating. That’s not to say he isn’t a romantic, or doesn’t put effort in. He’s just never really got the hang of the inbetween phase, where you’re not sure of the ground you’re on. You’re seeing each other, but you’re not boyfriends. You’ve held hands in the National Gallery’s Leyendecker exhibit, but you’ve not seen each other’s flats yet. 

Jon never knows what to say in that space, whether any honest admissions are moving too quickly. He likes Martin, likes how Martin speaks to the plants in his shop with a soft, coaxing voice. Likes how Martin stirs sugar into his tea in an anticlockwise direction and that he only wears socks with cute patterns on them. Martin makes himself easy to like. Jon hopes he comes across the same way. 

Jon stops by Martin’s flower shop after a long and arduous workday. A warm Spring has bloomed into a sweltering summer and Jon has been forced into short sleeved button ups. He’s not generally one for bright prints but Martin convinced him to buy a pink button up decorated with palm leaf fronds, and well he doesn’t hate it. Martin is closing up when Jon arrives. He greets Jon with a soft kiss.

“You taste like strawberries,” Jon comments when they part. 

“Blame my new lip balm.”

Jon kisses Martin again, eager for the taste. Martin smiles into the kiss, eventually pushing Jon away so he can continue locking up. While Martin pulls down the shutters, Jon wanders over to peer through the windows of the empty shop next door. It used to be a bakery of some kind, given the layout, presumably some kind of hipster startup gone awry. 

Martin loops his arm through Jon’s. Martin is more of a hand holder but Jon prefers looping arms. It feels more secure, if a little old fashioned, plus Jon doesn’t have to worry about sweaty palms. 

“I don’t think that bakery was any good,” Martin says, “the doughnuts were terrible, really sickly sweet.”

“I do find doughnuts rather… disagreeable.”

“Disagreeable?” Martin snorts.

“What?”

“Nothing, interesting choice of words. Anyway, I hope whoever takes over makes bakes as well as you do.”

Jon turns his head to hide his blush. “I’m hardly a professional.”

Martin shrugs. “You could be, your stuff definitely tastes bakery quality.”

“Running a bakery is difficult, it’s all early mornings and profit margins,” Jon says, shifting his weight to prompt Martin to start walking. 

“Something I would know nothing about.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” Martin says, kissing Jon’s cheek, “I’m only teasing. Besides you like being an archivist.”

“Yeah,” Jon replies, voice soft and hesitant, “I do.”

\-----

  
  


Jon smacks Martin’s hand with his wooden spoon. Martin pouts, looking like a kitten denied cream. Jon sticks the wooden spoon back into his brownie mix. 

“No.”

“Just a little taste.”

“No, no fingers in my mixing bowl. If you’re good I’ll let you lick the spoon.” 

Martin pouts harder, adding in a wobbly lip and making his eyes shiny. Jon has had to steel himself against some of Martin’s guilt inducing facial expressions, fearing if he gives in then he will create some kind of monster. He is not that successful. He doesn’t like denying Martin, finds himself more often than not being very indulgent because he enjoys Martin’s happiness. That being said, he does not want Martin to accidentally get salmonella from eating raw eggs. 

Jon pours the mixture into a pan, using his silicone bowl scraper to get as much out of the bowl as possible. He leaves a little for Martin, sliding the bowl and spoon across the counter with a soft smile. Martin grins, running his index finger along the bottom of the bowl.

“Delicious!”

“Imagine how good they’ll taste when they’re actually done,” Jon replies, placing the pan into the oven. He sets his egg timer for twenty-five minutes. A present from Martin, it’s shaped like a toffee cow and makes a mooing sound when times up. 

Martin makes an excited noise of anticipation. Jon swipes the bowl, placing it in the sink so he can start washing up. Martin comes up behind him, wrapping long arms around Jon’s waist and placing his chin on Jon’s shoulder. 

“Are you planning to help?”

“I’m helping by providing emotional support,” Martin murmurs. His weight against Jon is comforting, like being wrapped in a homemade blanket. 

“Much appreciated, but I know for a fact that you’re a dab hand at drying.”

“Tempting, but I think I like this position much more.”

Martin nuzzles his cheek against Jon’s. Jon chuckles, turning his head so they can kiss. Strawberry lip balm and chocolate brownie mix. Not a terrible combination. Jon is so enraptured, he fails to notice Martin’s hand slipping into the sink to collect a handful of soap foam. 

Martin blows the foam into Jon’s face, giggling at Jon’s affronted expression. 

“How dare you,” Jon says, “I regret letting you lick the bowl.”

“I’m sure I can win my way back into your good graces.”

“Drying up would be a start.”

Martin grabs a tea towel, the one Daisy bought with the Archers theme tune embroidered on it. He starts with the nearest wooden spoon, humming along to the song on a neighbours radio as it drifts through the open kitchen window. 

“You know,” Martin says, when Jon hands him the bowl, “the shop next to mine is still empty.”

“Is it?” 

Martin nods. “Yeah, Tim suggested I buy it, maybe knock through and have a cafe as a side business. Sort of a flower shop you can drink tea in.”

Jon lets the sink drain. “It’s not a bad idea, even if it is one of Tim’s.”

Martin nudges Jon with his elbow. Jon likes Tim really, he just finds it difficult to talk to a man who thinks kayaking is a fun activity and is, as Basira put it, incredibly hot. 

“Well?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I should do it?”

Jon taps his fingers on the counter. “It would be a lot of work, not just redesigning the space but running a cafe on top of a flower shop. You’ll have to hire more people, buy ingredients, buy equipment, it will definitely be demanding on your time.”

Martin folds the tea towel into a neat square. Jon puts his hand over Martin’s, squeezing it gently. 

“But,” Jon continues, “if it’s something that you want to do, then I’ll be supportive. It’s your business, not mine.” 

“It could be your business?”

“What?”   
  


“Well,” Martin says, “you’re happiest when you’re baking. I’m not saying you have to make your hobby into your job but, I would really appreciate it if you would… you know, help me design the menu and also maybe do you want to move in together?”

“Yes,” Jon replies, shocked at his own boldness. It makes sense, they’ve been dating for almost a year at this point and Jon’s lease comes to an end soon. Basira and Daisy are considering a move that will make their commutes easier, so he’s not beholden to anyone in that sense. And designing a menu might be fun.

Martin pulls Jon into a delighted kiss, the kind that fills Jon up from the inside, like Martin is pouring his happiness into Jon like water into a vase. The timer goes off, the soft mooing breaking up the moment as Jon pulls away to retrieve the brownies from the oven. He even lets Martin have one while they’re still hot, shaking his head fondly when Martin inevitably burns his tongue.

\-----

Jon climbs into his side of the bed, plumping his pillow up against the headboard. Martin is slumped down to his right, lost in the sea of blankets. Martin it turns out, gets incredibly cold in winter and no amount of blankets is enough. 

“I think that accounting meeting went very well,” Jon comments, leaning over to retrieve his notebook from the bedside table.

“Do we have to use Oliver?” the nest of blankets formerly known as Martin asks.

“Why? Were you unsatisfied with his services?”

“Not… exactly.” 

Jon can’t quite place Martin’s tone but then it dawns on him. 

“Martin, are you jealous?”

The blankets wiggle. “No.”

“Martin.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Jon starts laughing. 

“It’s not funny.”

“It is a little bit,” Jon says, putting a hand on where he thinks Martin’s head might be. “You have nothing to be jealous of. I’m not attracted to Oliver Banks.” 

“But he’s so beautiful,” Martin whines. 

“Well I guess so. Objectively.” 

“Objectively?”

Jon shrugs. “I was more concerned with what he was saying than his face.”

The blankets make a distressed noise. 

“You’re beautiful too,” Jon says, looking for an access point. It’s hard to find where one blanket ends and another begins. 

“Not like that.”

Jon pulls the blankets away from Martin’s face. Martin makes an attempt to retrieve them but Jon snuggles up to Martin, placing butterfly kisses onto Martin’s face. 

“I love you Martin whatever the K stands for Blackwood.” 

“Keats,” Martin mumbles.

“We both know that’s not true.”

Martin sighs, moving his arm so that Jon can cuddle close. 

“Are you going to forbid me to see him?” Jon teases. 

“Yes, I forbid you to be alone with him.”

Jon coaxes Martin into a kiss, melting Martin’s resolve until they’re snuggled up together under the blankets.

“We need to look at paint samples tomorrow,” Jon says. Martin groans.

“Not more paint samples.”

“Yes paint samples, you’re the one who wanted to repaint the entire place.” 

“I can’t look at shades of white again Jon, they’re all the same.”

“They’re not but I understand the sentiment. If you could just choose between the eggshell and cream?”

Martin covers his face with a pillow.

\-----

Jon puts down his copy of _ A Brief History of Time  _ when Agnes brings him his masala chai. Jon isn’t quite sure why Martin hired Agnes as she is somewhat unsettling but she is the only person who gets Jon’s tea order absolutely perfect, and she seems kind. Her girlfriend Jude is downright terrifying and loves to flex her muscles at Jon when they’re in the same room. 

Jon gives Agnes a soft thanks, sliding his book out of the way to pull the cup closer. Martin bought all the mugs second hand so none of them match but it gives the cafe a certain charm. Today Agnes has chosen the navy blue mug with silver stars. Jon takes a sip, leaning back in his chair to survey his surroundings.

The cafe feels like an extension of the home Martin and Jon have built together. The walls are a pale lime green, which makes the white counters and silver equipment look bright and clean. The wooden furniture is mostly second hand; Tim and Martin spent a weekend sanding and painting it while Jon made cups of tea and offered little to no help. There are trailing plants hanging from the ceiling in wicker baskets and large potted plants leading the way to the flower shop. 

Martin passes by that entrance, chatting to a customer about which soil is best for ferns. He sees Jon waiting and winks. Jon holds up his watch, tapping it a few times. Martin nods, disappearing from view. 

“Hello boss.”

Jon sighs, mostly in a playful way. “I’m not your boss Tim.” 

Tim slides into the chair opposite. “You’re dating my boss, makes you my boss by proxy.”

Jon quirks an eyebrow. “Then I can tell you to get back to work and you’ll actually go?”

“Probably not.” Tim tilts his head to one side. “Something’s different about you.”

“Same could be said of you, no more dreadlocks.”

“It was time for a change. But there’s definitely something different about you.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. His hand drifts down to the pocket of his trousers, softly tapping on the velvet ring box inside. 

“I’m done for the day,” Martin announces, striding towards their table. He’s rolling up the sleeves of his blue striped shirt, there’s a smudge of soil on his cheek and the late afternoon light is making his eyes sparkle. Jon smiles, ignoring Tim’s mockery of his lovestruck expression. Jon has seen the way Tim acts around Sasha, he has no legs to stand on. 

“Ready to go?” Martin asks. Jon nods, grabbing his bag. 

“See you later Double Bosses,” Tim says, holding two fingers to his temple to give them a semi-salute. 

“I’m the only boss,” Martin says, looping his arm through Jon’s, “I’m the one actually paying you.”

London is warm and hazy when they emerge onto it. There’s a light breeze ruffling their hair and they’ve plenty of time to walk to the restaurant and enjoy it. Martin takes a deep breath, grinning down at Jon.

“I love you,” Jon says, leaning up to kiss Martin’s cheek. Martin blushes, like he does every time Jon says those words.

“I love you too.”

Later, in a quiet corner of their favourite ramen place, Jon will propose. He won’t get down on one knee, but he will stumble over earnest words and come off a little brusque. Martin will take his hand, rub his thumb across Jon’s skin and say yes. A week later, during a picnic in Hyde Park, Martin will produce his own ring box and recite original poetry that will have Jon hiding his mouth in pleased embarrassment. 

For now, the future weighs down Jon’s pocket and crows tumble in the gutters overhead. The world is warm and gentle and bright, and summer is about to unfold. 


End file.
